My daughter turned, screaming “Nnnoooooo!!” with her eyes, action-movie style, as if some unstoppable horror was unfolding before her. Her body stiffened and then she screamed out loud. Her doom was at hand, as undeniable as death. It was…

…her father. Me.

She screamed and stormed upstairs to her room. I raised my eyebrows at the unexpected baby-sitter. The sitter raised her eyebrows at me. Whatever had just happened, one thing was certain: somehow it was my fault.

Normally, my daughter is pretty happy to see me when I come home. Just this morning I had a good ten minute talk with her about when I would be home. “Yes, in the daytime.” “Yes, before dinner.” But today, I somehow didn’t know that my wife needed to go somewhere, so she asked the neighbor’s teenaged girl if she could watch the kids until I arrived. [Where was I? I’m taking tomorrow off to spend the day at my daughter’s pre-school so I had to stay a little late today to finish some things off. Why didn’t I know? That’s a whole other story and it’s a subject that I’m sure will be debated later when my wife returns. I should probably just put myself out of my misery pre-emptively and write “It was my fault” here and have her come read the blog later. sigh]

Here’s the irony. If I had been even later, there wouldn’t have been a problem. You see, the sitter had only been there about five minutes when I arrived. My daughter’s 100 decibel consternation was caused by her knowledge that my arrival meant the sitter’s premature departure; and she does so adore the girl next door.

Imagine my surprise, arriving at home expecting a hug, wife’s car missing, sitter unexpectedly in the living room, and my daughter yelling at me, “Daddy! You’re TOO EARLY! GO AWAY!”

You learn to roll with it.